


cafuné

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, M/M, Prompt Fill, and SAP as always, i don't really mention the other characters so?, these two doofuses are in love bless them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 11:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19061329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Ten moments: in which Liuetenant Little finds himself drawn to the captain's steward and his attentions reciprocated, more than he would ever have hoped.





	cafuné

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> _Cafuné_ : the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love. 
> 
> Written for a tumblr prompt, selected by onstraysod.

**i.**

Edward notices the habit only three months into their voyage. He does not – or perhaps cannot – know what his observations say about him or his character.  He cannot tell you what Hodgson’s favorite roast is – though the other lieutenant speaks of it often. He cannot tell you what Irving’s most quoted Bible passage is – though the man refers to his holy text daily.

What Edward can tell you, in startling accuracy of detail, is the number of times Mr. Jopson has brushed his hair off his forehead on a Tuesday afternoon two weeks into August of 1845.

Once, after he pours tea for the officers and replaces the pot on the cabinet, his hand swipes the loose strand from his face, his eyes downcast and focused on his work.

Twice, after hastily following Crozier onto the main deck with the captain’s coat in hand. He moves seamlessly among the working sailors with graceful, quick steps. When the captain dismisses him, he nods and fixes his hair when he descends the ladder back into the ship.

Thrice, after he replenishes the officers’ glasses with Allsop’s, he stands with his back to the wall, and more slowly than he had before, he pushes the misbehaving hair back by his ear while his eyes stare placidly forward.

There are four more instances that Edward notices: passing in the hall, when Jopson is standing sentinel by the great cabin door, as he is speaking with the captain of the foretop in the fo’c’sle and a laugh brightens his face, and when he stands close to the warmth of Mr. Diggle's stove, in a rare moment of stillness, a cup loosely held in his hand, the man's pale eyes blank and distant as if lost in memories of home, recent enough to be a constant pang in their chests.

All the details merge together as Edward tries to not contemplate why his eye is so frequently drawn to the captain’s steward. Once, their gaze connects, and shamefaced, caught in the criminal act of curiosity, Edward escapes by way of his cabin door, his heart thudding against his ribcage like a judge's gavel.

 

**ii.**

Originally, Edward believes Mr. Jopson’s scrupulousness toward his hair is a sign of vanity. Thomas Jopson is, after all, the captain's steward, and during his years of service in the Royal Navy, Edward has noticed the silly airs that stewards adopt; the young, civilian dandies in their carefully knotted kerchiefs and starched collars.

Though the obvious esteem in which Captain Crozier holds Jopson commands Edward to regard the steward with more interest than disdain.

And the more he watches Mr. Jopson, the more he realizes that the man's ticks are a tiny crack in the ever constant composure of the man, habits to mask his nerves.

Edward, Hodgson, and Irving crowd the hall by the great cabin and discuss in hushed voices among themselves whether or not they should remind the captain of the upcoming meeting that the captain himself had scheduled. The death of Sir John hangs over each of their heads, and Crozier’s mood is no exception to the gloom which has descended on both ships and crews.

Jopson is returning from the galley when he encounters the trio, and he startles at the sight of them. His hand nearly goes to his forehead, but it stops midair when his eyes meet Edward’s. His face tightens, and he forces his hand down.

The murmured conversation between Hodgson and Irving tapers to a close as they look to Edward, who realizes he has been staring and poor Jopson looking more worried with each passing second.

Edward swallows, his throat uncomfortably dry. “The captain has isolated himself all afternoon, but—” A nod to his other officers. “He had a meeting planned for four o’clock, and we were unsure if he wishes to proceed.”

The line of tension along Jopson’s shoulders eases, and he steps closer to the group of men.

“Let me, sir,” he says with a polite if thin smile. “I know he’s difficult like this.”

The final syllable out of Jopson’s mouth ends with a choked noise as he snaps his mouth shut, his eyes widening a fraction as if realizing belatedly how inappropriate his words are. No matter how much truth they hold. Even Hodgson, glib as he always is, frowns at Jopson so that Edward comes to his rescue.

“If you would, Mr. Jopson. He’ll take more kindly to you than one of us.”

Jopson nods, that strand of hair falling into his face, his eyes not meeting any of theirs as he scoots past them to enter the great cabin.

Edward flexes his hand to shake off the tremor of desire he felt to fix Jopson’s fringe for him.

 

**iii.**

A softly exclaimed _oh_ slips from Jopson where the two of them nearly collide in the narrow hall when he leaves the great cabin the same moment Edward exits his berth. Jopson carries a basin in his arms as he is most likely fetching fresh water for their ailing captain. The steward looks as drained as Edward himself feels, and before he can stop himself, Edward reaches to fix that ever disobedient strand of hair, grown long enough to graze Jopson’s cheekbone.

The sudden awareness of his gesture cuts through him with an intensity equaling the cold air outside, and his hand slows, landing on Jopson’s arm. The steward’s eyes are wide as he stares at Edward, both of them silent despite the charged energy coursing in the small space between them. Even through the knit of the jumper, Edward can feel the firm curve of Jopson's bicep and the heat radiating from the muscle.

The moment ends when Edward hears Mr. Blanky and the other officers back from their meeting on _Erebus_ , and he pats Jopson’s arm before turning to greet the returning party.

Edward resists the urge to watch Jopson as he hears the man’s footsteps follow him long enough to slip past the ladder to the stove and its vats of melting ice. Even as Jopson’s conversation with Diggle keeps interjecting with Irving’s update concerning their victuals, Edward keeps his attention on his fellow officer as Irving leads them both toward the mess to speak on the matter in private.

Edward worries with a simmering panic if anyone witnessed the exchange between him and Jopson. Though , he supposes, it matters little since the one whose opinion holds any weight to Edward is the steward himself.

 

**iv.**

They kiss for the first time in Edward’s cabin, the morning after Carnivale, their hair still reeking of smoke and burnt flesh. Edward has just returned from clearing debris, but Thomas left the wreckage shortly after the flames dissipated, lending his assistance to Mr. Goodsir and Bridgens in transporting the wounded back to the ships _._ When Edward’s heavy steps took him down the ladder to _Terror_ ’s lower deck, there was Thomas with a cup of rum in hand to help warm Edward's limbs and belly.

Thomas has removed his slops and Welsh wig, so when Edward clings to him, his hands slide up under the short hem of his jacket to brush against the back of his waistcoat. Edward leans into Thomas, unsteady on his feet as the adrenaline drains out of him, but Thomas holds him up without complaint. They cling  to each other with the desperation of men who have brushed shoulders with death and who desire nothing more than to erase the noise of groaning ice and crackling fire.

The skin above Thomas’s collar is inviting, so when they break from their kiss, Thomas presses their foreheads together while Edward brushes his fingers against every bare inch of skin that he can find.

He ends this mapping of Thomas’s body by carding his fingers through the steward’s hair, the ink black strands softer than any of Edward’s dreams could have supplied.

“Sir—” Thomas murmurs, pressing his cheek into Edward's hand when his fingers graze along his jaw.

Edward shuts his eyes. He is close enough to Thomas that he can smell traces of soap and the fresh musk of sweat. Smoke still pervades his senses, though, and flames leap from the darkness of his eyelids. When he cannot quell his shaking Thomas takes his hand and clasps it between his own.

“Edward,” he says like a prayer and kisses him again.

 

**v.**

Edward does not regret forgoing sleep, not for this, _never_ for this. The upcoming departure of his sledge party is a lead weight in his stomach. Both of them know that what margin of privacy they can afford on _Terror_ will be gone once they are camped on the ice and rocks, so Edward and Thomas meet one final time in the lieutenant’s cabin. They have met precious few instances before this, and every stolen minute is an exploration of uncharted waters, as exhilarating and terrifying as when the ships broke through ice, forcing a pathway into territory unknown.

It is the quiet hour before dawn, before Thomas starts his duties for the day and before the other stewards attend to the officers. The ship is always cold now, so they undress only enough to lie comfortably under the covers of Edward’s bunk, where Thomas folds his legs up and Edward slowly fucks into him. With every roll of their hips, Thomas shudders and digs his fingers into Edward’s back through his shirt. Edward keeps his face pressed at the curve of Thomas’s jaw, kissing against his thrumming pulse or nipping gently at his earlobe.

They don’t speak their fears, of what is to come next, whether any of them will live to see land unfrozen and green again. Such worries are tucked away in the shifting of their bodies as they move together, two waves converging before crashing onto the rocks on the shore.

The legs wrapped around Edward’s hips tense and lift a few inches from the bed as Thomas comes undone beneath him. Thomas is gorgeous like this, his head tipped back and eyes shut, mouth open and moving wordlessly. Edward tangles his fingers into Thomas’s hair and leans close enough to press his mouth on Thomas’s where he slides their tongues together and swallows his moans, like a delicacy to be savored.

Edward’s peak follows soon after, the pocket of warmth between their hips too overwhelming to resist. Thomas wraps his arms and legs tight around Edward, and they lie, nested and safe, Thomas’s nose nuzzling against his forehead and Edward’s hands stroking Thomas’s hair; neither of them wishing to be the first to extract himself and face the cold, cruel morning.

 

**vi.**

They follow Crozier’s suggestion and abandon the tents. The sledges are still monstrously heavy, and their progress is slow. The men pair off among themselves when they sleep, to save warmth and to find any semblance of comfort. Connections between the men, whether made on the ship or after, are hidden no longer, but not one of them casts judgment on his brother. The air stinks of their suffering, so no one disputes the much needed solace.

No one, especially, bats an eye when Edward takes the newly promoted third lieutenant under his wing and into his bedroll. There is little fuss anymore about titles and leadership the longer they are exposed to the harsh North.

It is midsummer, and sleep comes rarely and always fitfully under the pale night sun. Thomas is thin in Edward’s arms and his chest bony where Edward rests his cheek. His hands reach up out of habit to brush into Thomas’s hair only to meet the other man’s fingers where they are trying to fix the greasy, too-long strands.

When their fingers bump into each other, Thomas huffs and stops his attempts to comb through the tangles. Edward knows the beard and hair are a constant source of discomfort for Thomas, though the man never complains. He sidles closer until they are face to face, careful that his sharp elbows do not prod too hard. Thomas keeps his chin tucked down and his gaze averted even when Edward brings his wrapped hand to Thomas’s cheek and brushes his knuckles against the dry skin.

Edward offered once, weeks ago, when they had the tents and a few minutes alone in the canvas of one, to help him cut his hair. Thomas demurred, an excuse ready and automatic falling from his lips, his eyes landing anywhere but on Edward.

“My offer still stands,” he says, pitching his voice low, their noses a scant few inches apart. “Cutting it might help.” _Might help you feel better_ , which he cannot bring himself to add, all too aware of the illness eating at Thomas even when all he fights is exhaustion and despair.

Thomas snorts and asks what would be the point if they are all going to— Edward kisses him to prevent him from finishing the statement.

There is copper on his tongue, but Edward will not let himself think about what that means.

 

**vii.**

The floodgate in Edward's heart opens, filling him with exasperated fondness when he encounters Thomas struggling to evenly cut the back of his hair. He rushes to Thomas’s side before the man slices his fingers by mistake.

“Thomas, let me,” Edward insists, vaguely aware of how his words echo the steward’s from long ago, but Thomas offers no argument when Edward takes the scissors from him.

They are aboard one of her Royal Majesty’s ships, recently transferred from the whaler that rescued them off the ice. They’re going _home,_ and the surrealness of it all leaves Edward dizzy. He distracts himself by helping Crozier attend to what is left of their crew, and uncaring if anyone finds the intensity of his attentions imprudent, Edward spends most of his time with Thomas.

A single day has passed since Thomas has recovered enough from his illness to sit up on his own, let alone cut his hair. From what moldy crate of their supplies the toiletry set came or who fetched it for him, Edward can only guess. Every snip of the scissors is accompanied by a slight flinch across Thomas's frame, but as the weight on his head lessens, his posture relaxes, as though each strand of hair were a chain being cast aside. With each black lock that falls from Thomas’s head onto the floor, Edward trims away the horror, the deaths, all that they wish to leave abandoned, bleached by sun and gnawed by vermin.

His own hair is long and heavy, curling past his chin, but Edward cares less for his appearance than he does for the wellbeing of everyone else. Only yesterday did he trim his beard so that the growth was even along his jaw, if anything to make himself look slightly less like a brigand.

He runs his hand gently through Thomas’s hair, checking for any long strands that he overlooked. Thomas’s eyes are closed, his chin dipping forward as he leans into the touch. Edward judges his handiwork as good as it will be. He brushes a few stray hairs off of Thomas’s neck before he retrieves the small mirror from the toiletries laid on the makeshift bed.

He places the mirror in Thomas’s hands and watches as Thomas brings a shaky hand to his head as he turns slowly from side to side, as if trying to piece together the puzzle of who he used to be. His eyes are wet, and Edward kneels before him so that he can brush away the stray tears.

“Do you want me to help you shave as well?” Edward asks, wanting to give Thomas anything and everything.

Thomas closes his eyes and mutely nods.

 

**viii.**

Thomas avoids the topic of Crozier’s recommendation and the lieutenant test every time Edward mentions it. He is visiting Edward at his parents’ estate, and dear Tom – he stares at Edward, when he thinks Edward does not notice. His expression is always full of awe mixed with hesitation, as though he does not understand how anxiously Edward wants him here, how nervous Edward was that his parents would be kind to Thomas, and that his siblings would not comment at the worn state of Thomas’s clothes or how that shifted to Thomas’s borrowing the occasional jacket or waistcoat from Edward instead.

The Arctic is far away, and from the comfort of a parlor, warmed by a cheerful fire and sips of brandy, Edward watches the snow fall outside. Mindful that the door to the room is locked, Edward lounges on the chaise with one leg draped over the side, arms folded on his chest, and his head in Thomas’s lap. Edward sighs as Thomas absently loops a few strands of Edward’s hair around his fingers as he reads a book propped on the arm of the sofa.

Edward’s gaze moves from the window to Thomas’s face, lit by the glow of the fireplace and the gas lamp, his eyes moving along the page and completely unaware of Edward’s scrutiny.

The love that fills Edward in that moment is strong enough, sudden enough, that he feels his breath stutter and his heart beat faster, and there is an excitement that floods his veins even as nerves twist in his stomach should Thomas not feel as strongly as he.

He wets his lips and clears his throat. Thomas looks at him and smiles, his fingers sinking deeper into Edward’s hair.

Love fuels his bravery, so he says, “I received an invitation from the Admiralty. They’re hosting a dinner in honor of Sir John and requested that the expedition’s officers attend.”

Something closes across Thomas’s face, a shutter caught in a gust and slamming shut. The smile slips away, and his eyes are glassy as the unreachable horizon at sea when they look to the fireplace.

 “Oh,” he answers, unsure what else to say or, perhaps, fully knowing why Edward is broaching the topic.

“I wish you could go with me.”

Thomas dogears the book and sets it on the table beside him. “I assume the Admiralty only invited officers.”

Edward frowns at him. “Which is why you deserve a place there.”

The fingers in his hair clench, pulling the strands too tightly. “Edward—”

“Crozier and Fitzjames both support your promotion. Have you _let_ them present their case?” Edward sits up. “Would you let me?”

“They would never approve it. Not for a steward, and not someone of my—of my birth…”

Thomas still avoids his gaze, the rush of words trailing to a lackluster stop before he heaves a deep sigh. He swipes at his hair, but Edward catches his hand and stops him.

“But do you _want_ it?”

Thomas’s brow is furrowed when Edward tilts his chin up, looking much like a man torn between what is proper and what is deserved, a man unaccustomed to thinking on his own desires. Finally, Thomas gives a tiny, one-shouldered shrug, and speaks so quietly that Edward has to lean close to hear him.

“Yes.”

 

**ix.**

Even at the potential harm to his own reputation, Edward – with the steadfast support of Crozier – works tirelessly for Thomas’s promotion. Pride flushes through him for Thomas and the man’s diligence when the Admiralty finally relents and agrees to let Thomas test for it.

Edward has the utmost confidence in him, but Thomas assures him that he will be fine should he not pass, should that be the only attempt the Admiralty will allow him. When they lie in bed together, safe in each other’s arms, Thomas swears that he is perfectly happy just being with Edward, here in England.

The time for his test arrives, and at his own insistence, Thomas travels alone to London.

“People talk enough about us, Edward,” Thomas had argued. “It’s best if you stay here. As much I appreciate your concern, I can face them on my own.”

Thus Edward is forced to wait until Thomas returns with the results of the test, and Edward – more prone to worry than he likes to admit – tries to distract himself during the days that Thomas is gone. There is a letter sitting on the desk in the bedroom, in this still unfamiliar home he and Thomas share, that he has read but to which he cannot find the words to reply.

> _Ned, my sweet, you have always been a special one among my boys, and rest assured, I am ecstatic at your return and want nothing more than your happiness. However, I cannot abide this connection of yours to Mr. Jopson. It is time you settle down with a lovely girl and start a family. A man with your outstanding naval career deserves no less. The Calloways' niece is of age and absolutely charming & handsome. She calls on us often, so when you next visit, I shall have you meet her. _
> 
> _Please forgive a mother’s love. I cannot force your hand, but be cautious how you proceed. Rumors of a rather nasty sort have already begun to circulate about you and your friend. I have your best interests in mind and would hate to see your good name besmirched by an illicit affair._

He is sitting at his desk late into the evening. More than once, he has studied the short paragraphs with a sick dread roiling in his stomach, as he staunchly resists the urge to throw the letter into the fire and think nothing more of it. He wonders how serious his mother’s ultimatum is, if this shall be a precursor to cutting Edward off from the family.

He sighs, resigning himself to write his answer in the morning when he is less anxious and sleep-addled, and he instead prepares for bed. Dressed down to his nightshirt, he is washing his face when he hears the door downstairs open and close. He dries off his face in time to see Thomas enter the room and deposit his bag by the bureau.

His face is lined with fatigue, but his eyes light up when he sees Edward. Edward immediately goes to his side, taking his hand, trying to not assume the worst.

A wide smile breaks on Thomas’s face.

“I passed,” he whispers, his fingers squeezing Edward’s.

Edward whoops, the noise dissolving into a laugh before he kisses him again and again until Thomas is laughing also and complaining that he cannot breath through Edward’s embrace. They part, if only that Edward can properly look at him while he cups his jaw and, before Thomas’s hand can reach it, brush the fringe from his forehead.

Thomas laughs faintly at the gesture and pulls Edward into a single, long kiss. Edward pets gently at Thomas’s hair as the other man embraces him. Pleasure tingles over his skin where Thomas rubs circles on his back.

In this moment, Edward feels invincible. Nothing the future holds can concern him; even if he struggles to receive future commissions, or if people whisper about the _impropriety_ of Thomas’s promotion, or if people stare accusingly at them when they arrive at public events together, or if rumors spread quickly and viciously as they continue living in their rented home in Manchester.

With a toothy smirk, Edward rubs his nose against Thomas’s. “So, how does it feel, Lieutenant Jopson? Everything you ever hoped for?”

Thomas rolls his eyes and smacks Edward’s side lightly, unable to keep an equally large grin from his face. “It’s not official _yet_ , but I’ll let you know, Lieutenant Little.”

They laugh again, giddy like children, before Thomas silences him with a kiss. Edward lets him lead him to the bed where he helps Thomas divest of his outer clothes and where they slot their bodies together, moving unhurriedly, leaving no inch of skin unexplored or untouched. The world closes in on that small room, that one bed, and when Thomas takes him, Edward’s fingers whisper silent declarations of his devotion and his love against his shoulders and through his hair.

 

**x.**

It is May 1850. The Arctic feels as distant as a dream quickly faded upon waking.

Edward has received a commission for a ship traveling the Mediterranean, and his bags are already packed in preparation for his trip to London, where the ship is docked. He has every plan to treasure this last week with Thomas before he returns to sea.

A light sleeper, he wakes before Thomas, but he lies in bed as the fog of sleep gradually fades. The early morning sun is filtering through the window of their bedroom, and when Edward turns his head, he is struck by the sight of Thomas where the sunlight gently folds over his prone form. He is bent on his side with his cheek pressed against the pillow, his hair falling over his thick eyebrows, and his mouth ajar as he snores quietly. His nose wrinkles after one particularly loud snore rouses him enough to make him groan, one eye squinting at the light now hitting his face, before he turns more into his pillow.

Laughing silently, biting his lips to keep from making noise, Edward leans forward and kisses Thomas’s shoulder. He shifts himself closer to Thomas who is awake enough to slide one of his legs over Edward’s thighs, but drowsy enough to keep his face half-pressed into his pillow, his arms shifting to wrap around it.

Edward runs his fingers through Thomas’s hair, pushing it off his forehead and kissing the skin as he uncovers it. One of Thomas’s hands comes from under the pillow to brush against his arm. Edward pauses in his ministrations long enough to kiss Thomas’s forearm before he continues to stroke Thomas’s hair, massaging the skin under the silky black strands.

Thomas opens one eye, and with a huff, he begrudgingly rolls onto his back and pulls Edward on top of him. Edward grins and kisses Thomas’s nose while Thomas closes his eyes again and rests his hands on the small of Edward’s back, scratching lightly at the skin.

Their hips are flush, and the press of their groins together sends a thrill of excitement through Edward’s limbs. Still running his hands through Thomas’s hair, Edward leans forward and kisses him, moaning when Thomas slips his hands further and kneads at the muscle of his backside.

Edwards pulls away, his hands on both side of Thomas’s face, and those eyes are open – warm and abundantly clear, the sky at dawn with the moon high and radiant.

He starts to speak but finds the word stuck in his throat.

Thomas leans into one of his hands, smiles, and whispers, “I know.” He turns to kiss Edward’s fingers. “I know.”

They fall together then, in an embrace like dew spotting the grass of a windswept moor, and oh, Edward will miss these mornings when he is gone and will thus cherish every lasting second of this week. He wrinkles his brow as his fingers catch a glimmer, something almost ethereal in the glint of sunlight, near Thomas’s temple, and Edward runs his thumb along Thomas’s hairline across his forehead.

Thomas sniffs, almost a chuckle, and he smiles confusedly at Edward’s gesture. “What?”

“You’re graying. Here,” Edward says, almost in wonder as he strokes the short silvery hairs; “and here.”

Thomas frowns, twisting to sit up, one hand immediately patting at his hair. “I am not.”

He does not wait for Edward to answer before he is out of the bed and looking in the mirror by the wash basin. Finding the spectacle funnier than is probably fair, Edward lies back in bed, trying his hardest to not laugh out loud at the growing horror on Thomas’s face.

One of the laughs bursts from him when Thomas gives him a despairing look.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I shouldn’t laugh,” Edward says, though the words fall flat as each one is interrupted by his breathy chuckles.

Thomas is back on him in an instant, straddling him as his fingers part through Edward’s hair.

“It’s not fair,” he laments; “You’re older than me, and you’ve not a single one.”

Edward sobers long enough to assure Thomas that he has seen a few in his whiskers.

Thomas pinches his side. “That’s blonde, not gray.”

Leaning up on his elbows to kiss the corner of Thomas’s pouting mouth, Edward runs his hand through Thomas’s hair and smooths the strands where it is punctuated with the flecking gray hairs – hardly discernable but a sharp contrast to Thomas’s dark coloring.

“I think it makes you look distinguished,” Edward promises, as he kisses along the hairline, right atop those silver hairs.

Thomas grumbles but leans into the kiss, sighing as Edward continues to pet through his hair. Edward smiles against his skin and hugs his arms around Thomas’s shoulders when Thomas’s hands slide up his thighs under his nightshirt, squeezing the muscle lightly before reaching higher and stopping at his waist. Thomas is still sulking when Edward pulls back to kiss the bridge of his nose, but a hint of smile pulls at his lips when Edward looks imploringly at him.

They spend the rest of the morning in bed, no concern for the upcoming week or any spare thought lent to Edward’s departure. It is May 1850, in a sunny bedroom, in a small townhouse in Manchester, two lieutenants, and not a care of the world, nor the Arctic, nor what tried to kill them, nor what tries to part them.

In Thomas’s arms, Edward loses himself and will have it no other way.


End file.
